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The telegram arrives on a Wednesday. Sansa is in the kitchen, Rickon in his high chair happily playing in his applesauce, and she is making a pie to take to her father-in-law's birthday dinner when someone knocks on the door. She thinks it is Margaery, who is supposed to come over to help fit the dress she plans to wear when Robb returns from the Pacific; her body has changed since giving birth to Rickon a year ago, and it has been even longer since she last saw her husband. Robb always says her blue polka dotted dress is his favorite, and Sansa needs it to fit as perfectly as the first time he saw her in it when he comes back to her.
She sees the uniform and the card in the soldier's hand, and then the world goes black.
She has always loved the Starks. From the moment Robb first brought her home to meet everyone, Ned, Catelyn, Arya, and Bran treated her as if she was one of their own. They were nothing like her family: Lysa with her loose grip upon reality and frequent paranoia Sansa was trying to seduce her stepfather, Petyr with his lingering stares and disquieting closeness, Robert and his endless tantrums. Sometimes Sansa imagines she was born fully formed at seventeen, that Sansa Arryn, the girl whose father died when she was a baby, the girl her mother hated and her stepfather desired, never existed at all; from the moment Robb brought her to his family's estate, to Winterfell, Sansa never hesitated to think of the Starks as family.
They all seem like strangers today. There is no body to bury, no funeral to hold; Sansa sits in the large parlor in her stiff black dress and accepts condolences from everyone who passes without really hearing a word. She thinks of Rickon, asleep in his crib upstairs, and wonders how she will care for him now. Her father had left her some money when he passed; it is held in trust until she is 25, but perhaps she can request it now that she is a widow. Before she met Robb, she had thought of applying to college, thought of becoming a teacher or a nurse; but then Robb proposed and she was Mrs. Robb Stark. He hadn't wanted her to work and she got pregnant with Rickon so quickly, she scarcely had a chance to think of anything beyond Robb and Rickon and being a good wife and mother.
And then Pearl Harbor was attacked. The next thing Sansa knew, Robb, his cousin Jon, his best friend Theon, and every other boy she knew shipped out for Europe or the Pacific. She remembered the dinner the Starks had before Robb and Jon left, remembered giving Jon and Theon handkerchiefs she embroidered for them, remembered how desperately she clutched Robb that night, pleading with him to come home to her.
Now she is a 19-year-old widowed mother, and Sansa cannot help but think this is how her mother's descent into madness began.
Sansa is clearing a table during the lunchtime rush when news breaks that the war is over. She has been working at The Crossroads Diner since Robb's death, unable to access her trust and determined not to live off of the Starks' charity; it is grueling work which often leaves her feet and back aching, but she is able to provide for Rickon, which is her only concern. Her beautiful little boy who looks so much like his father turned four only last week; Catelyn watches him during the day, and every time she makes a comment about his resemblance to Robb.
Jeyne hustles everyone out for the day, closing the diner as the streets fill with people cheering and celebrating. As Sansa steps out into the sunlight, she can see a few women weeping with happiness, and she hates them so much then. Robb is dead, Theon died not soon after, and there has been no word of Jon for months now; there is nothing left for Sansa to celebrate.
She refuses Catelyn's invitation to stay for dinner, telling an outright lie about eating at her mother's house. She hasn't been to the isolated house on Eyrie Avenue in years, not since she was pregnant with Rickon and Petyr spent the day gazing lustily upon her swollen breasts. Instead she goes home, makes Rickon a sandwich, gives him his bath, and reads him as many stories as he'd like. When he is asleep and the house is unbearably quiet, she sits on the couch and cries herself to sleep.
Arya comes over to the house one afternoon and brings the news Jon is alive and due to return home at the end of the month. All of the Starks will be meeting him at the train station, and Arya asks if she wants to come. The last thing Sansa wants is to stand at the train station with all the other happy families and feel the acute pain of knowing her husband is not stepping off of it. But Jon was Robb's best friend, the man Robb freely referred to as his brother; Jon was only a baby when his parents were killed in a fire and came to live with his aunt and uncle, and it was Jon who stood as Robb's best man at their wedding. Robb would want Jon to return home to his family, and Rickon is his family, so Sansa hopes her false smile rings true as she promises to attend.
It takes far more time than she'd like to wrestle Rickon into his good clothes and more time still to get his auburn hair to lay flat against his head. Her son has boundless energy, and Sansa is often exhausted by him. When he is dressed and ready, she seats him by the radio with the wooden cars Bran made for him and hurries to ready herself. As she opens her closet, she sees the polka dot dress, the one planned to wear for Robb, the one she never did get to altering. She touches the fabric, a knot rising in her throat; she was only 16 the night she first met Robb, so pleased to be able to go out with Jeyne Poole; Petyr never let her go anywhere, said boys were not to be trusted, but he had to work late and her mother loved for her to be gone.
Sansa still remembers that night in perfect detail. She and Jeyne sat at a table near the window sipping malts, swaying to the music playing. There were so many boys there that night, and Sansa noticed the dark-haired boy near the jukebox. She noticed him because he was not laughing or merry; there was a shadow in his face Sansa recognized from her own, and, when he looked over at her, she smiled shyly, hoping he would ask her to dance. Instead the boy with him came over; he was shorter and bulkier than the darker boy, ruddy haired and always smiling. Robb danced with her the rest of the night while Jon didn't say a word, and, when Robb drove her home, she let him kiss her even if it was terribly improper and flushed with excitement when he declared, “I'm going to marry you.”
“Jon is shy,” Robb explained once when Sansa fretted Jon didn't like her. It was shortly after he proposed; Sansa had just turned 17 and her mother finally gave her consent for the marriage despite Petyr's outrage. “He likes you fine, San.”
Sansa still isn't sure how much she believes Jon Snow likes her, but she chooses one of her few good dresses – an emerald green frock Margaery made her for her last birthday – and carefully pins up her hair. She rewashes Rickon's face, chastises him for getting dirty, and then loads him into the car. It takes a dozen tries before the car turns over, and Sansa winces at the sounds it makes as they make the journey to Kingsroad Station. She easily spots her in-laws, and Rickon races towards Ned, who hauls him up into his arms. Rickon adores his grandparents, his aunt and his uncles, and Sansa will always be grateful for the Starks, who can love her son the way her own mother and stepfather never can.
When the men begin to pour off of the train, Sansa can scarcely stand the sight of them. She closes her eyes, tries to force the image of Robb in his uniform from her memory; when she finally wills herself to open her eyes, Jon is there, setting down his duffel bag and releasing a short laugh as Arya launches herself into his arms, dangling from his body with her arms around his neck. He embraces Bran tightly and accepts a kiss on his cheek from Catelyn; Sansa watches as Rickon hides his face in Ned's neck, and both Ned and Jon chuckle. Rickon is hardly shy, and Sansa made certain to explain that his Uncle Jon was returning from the war, but he is still just a little boy.
“Aren't you going to say hello to Jon?” Ned asks, rubbing his grandson's back. When Rickon does not budge, Sansa steps forward, prepared to take Rickon, when Jon reaches into his pocket and says, “I have a present for you, Rickon.”
Her son lifts his head, looking at Jon with curiosity. “You do?”
It is a medal, one Sansa recognizes instantly; she has one in a box at home with all the other things the Army gave her in Robb's name. The purple ribbon disappears into Rickon's fist, his eyes wide as he touches the medal, and Sansa blurts out, “You can't give him that.”
Jon looks at her, and it strikes Sansa how old he looks now. He isn't so old, only 26, but there is a weariness in his eyes now, his face no longer boyish. Jon had always been thinner than Robb, but he is downright lean now; she thinks if she touched him, she could feel all his bones.
“It's alright,” he says in that soft voice which always seemed to get muffled under Robb's. “I have another.”
She doesn't hug him. She can't. But then Jon does not move to hug her either, only looks at her a beat longer with those sad eyes of his and allows Arya to lead him back to the car.
At supper, she sits between Rickon and Bran and does not hear a word of conversation. Everything is instinct right now; she cuts Rickon's meat, urges him to eat his peas even though she knows it is a useless battle, takes a few bites of her own food because she has to eat. Since Robb died, Sansa's life has become necessities and responsibilities, and routine is all which keeps Sansa from falling apart completely.
She is a soldier in a war too, but there are no medals given on her battlefield.
Lunch rush is terrible. Sansa's feet absolutely ache, her arms already sore from the heavy trays of food she has shuttled to the different booths, and, when the diner begins to empty out as people return to work, she sighs gratefully. The make up of the crowds have changed since the war ended; where it used to be women from the factories, now it is men again, their wives having returned to their homes. Some of the women hadn't cared for that; they liked their jobs, liked having lives of their own. Sansa can understand it, but she longs to have one day where her body isn't sore, where she does not smell of grease, and she wishes there was any other option for her life right now.
She is wiping down the counter when Jon enters the diner, taking a seat on one of the red leather stools. It has been a month since his return from Europe, and, beyond a few glimpses of him when she picks up Rickon from Catelyn, she has not spoken to him. He looks more like he did before the war now, dressed in regular clothing, his hair grown out a bit but still slicked to his head; he smiles gently at her in greeting as she hands him a menu.
He doesn't make small talk; it isn't his way and it isn't hers either. Unlike the other customers, Sansa does not need to put on a false cheeriness with Jon, and she calmly writes down his order, handing the slip to Willow in the kitchen. As she begins to refill the salt shakers, she is stunned when Jon asks, “Have you worked here long?”
Sansa hesitates for a moment before answering, “Since Robb passed.”
It's her euphemism of choice. Sansa isn't certain how Robb died in the Pacific, and she does not like to think about it, especially now that stories of soldiers' experiences are starting to be told in the newspapers.
“Do you like it?”
“It's honest work,” she deflects. She doesn't her job, has never liked it, but she had not wanted to work in the factories and Jeyne was the only person in town who would hire a woman with no experience or skills. For that, Sansa will never say a bad word against Jeyne Heddle.
“I spent the day looking for work myself.”
“You aren't going to work for Willas again?”
Before the war, Jon had worked for Willas Tyrell, who bred and raised horses. Robb, who worked in Ned's auto shops, used to tease Jon about his preference for animals over people, but even Sansa could not deny Jon was extremely talented when it came to training. The horse Margaery showed was trained by Jon, and Sansa knew the dogs the Starks kept had all been trained by Jon as well.
“I'm going to be taking classes at Citadel, and I need something with some flexibility. Willas is going to let me do some breaking and training but only part-time. It was real kind of him.”
Sansa nods. “I wasn't aware you wanted to go to college.”
Robb had gone to Citadel College, had earned a degree in business; he told her Jon was given the option when they graduated, Ned offering to pay his way as well, but Jon refused it, going to work for Willas instead.
“I have the money with the GI Bill, so I might as well.” Jon smiles, and Sansa is surprised at what a pleasant sight it is. “Now I just need to find a place to live.”
“I have a spare room.” When Jon looks at her in surprise, Sansa rushes on, “I have a room I rent out. I only rent to women usually and it isn't fancy, but I don't charge much and you have full use of the house.” Suddenly embarrassed by making the offer, she drops her gaze to the counter, scrubbing furiously with the sponge. “It was just an idea.”
“You wouldn't mind?”
“Why would I mind?” she counters, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. Taking a breath, she stops, looks Jon in the eye. “If Robb were here, he'd offer the same.”
They hammer out the details as Jon eats: he insists on paying $20 a month, which is more than half her mortgage payment and twice as much as the last boarder, and Sansa insists he does not smoke inside. By the time his plate is clean and Jon leaves, they have agreed he will move in on Saturday, giving Sansa time to prepare the room and explain everything to Rickon.
It isn't until he has left Sansa realizes he has given her a $5 tip, more than anyone ever has before.
Rickon is beyond excited at Jon coming to live with them. He bounces on the balls of his feet as Sansa makes up the guest bed, asking question after question, and, when Jon knocks on the door, races in front of Sansa to answer it. Jon has only two duffel bags, and Rickon tries to pull one up the stairs to help. She watches as Jon laughs, a true genuine laugh she has only heard a handful of times, before hoisting both duffels over one arm, lifting Rickon with the other. Sansa blushes as she watches the flex of his biceps and immediately looks away.
“Don't bother Uncle Jon while he unpacks,” she says to Rickon, but Jon quickly assures her, “He's no bother.”
Rickon beams, chattering as Jon takes him upstairs, and Sansa goes into the kitchen to start making lunch.
“Can I help with anything?” Jon asks as he and Rickon enter the kitchen a half-hour later, Rickon climbing into his usual seat at the table as Sansa fries bacon for BLT sandwiches.
“You don't have to.”
“No, I'd like to,” Jon insists. He points to the tomato Sansa means to slice. “I can cut that. Where do you keep the knives?”
“In the don't touch drawer,” Rickon volunteers, pointing to the drawer in question. Sansa watches from the corner of her eye as Jon fetches a knife and begins to neatly slice the tomato and then the lettuce. By the time she has finished the bacon, Jon has the vegetables ready, the bread toasted, and mayonnaise on the bread. It is the first time Sansa has ever made a meal with someone to help, and she feels an odd knot rising in her throat as she hoarsely offers her thanks and assembles the sandwiches.
“Are you going to stay with us forever, Uncle Jon?” Rickon asks as he messily eats his sandwich, his face smeared with tomato juice and mayonnaise.
Sansa excuses herself before she can hear the answer.
“My goodness, was he always this handsome?” Margaery muses as she peeks through the curtains to watch Jon teaching Rickon how to hit a baseball.
“Stop it!” Sansa hisses. “He's going to see you.”
“I hope he does. Is he seeing anyone?”
“I don't know. We don't talk about that.”
Margaery finally turns from the window, a smirk playing at her lips. “And what do you and Jon Snow talk about?”
“Nothing,” Sansa answers honestly. Beyond seeing him at supper where they usually spent the time speaking to Rickon, their schedules rarely allowed time for extended conversation.
“I don't know how you stand it,” Margaery continues, perching on the arm of a chair. “A man that handsome living down the hall, both of you single for a very long time - “
“He's practically Robb's brother.”
“Practically, and you deserve to be happy, Sansa.” Margaery's face softens. “It's been nearly four years. Are you never going to carve out any kind of happiness for yourself?”
“I'm perfectly happy with my life,” she insists.
Margaery sighs, and Sansa recognizes the expression on her face, the one she wore through high school, the one which says Sansa is absolutely hopeless. “Then you are a better woman than I am because I've always found sleeping alone to be dreadful.”
Sansa does not bother pointing out that she has almost always slept alone. She had gone to her marriage bed a virgin, and she had only eight months with Robb before he enlisted. Sleeping alone does not bother her.
It is raising Rickon alone which breaks her heart.
The heat wave strikes suddenly, the humidity absolutely unbearable. Sansa tries to position fans around the house, but the air is hot no matter what she does. On Saturday morning, Sansa awakes in a pool of sweat, and the thermometer on the porch says it is already nearly 90 degrees. Rickon stumbles downstairs whining over the heat, and Sansa takes ice from the freezer, rubbing down his face and neck, but it does little good. When Jon joins them, he suggests, “Why don't we go to the dam?”
It has been years since Sansa has been to Tumblestone Dam, and she starts to argue against it until Rickon wraps himself around her leg and pleads to go. Sansa sighs, knowing she cannot deny him, and marches upstairs to gather clothing and swimsuits. Her own suit lies in the bottom of a drawer, unworn since early in her pregnancy; she wrinkles her nose at the sight of herself in it and vows to stay out of the water. She is surprised to find Jon packing a picnic basket for them when she returns downstairs, and Rickon bounces in excitement as they get into Jon's car and begin the drive to the lake.
The beach is full of people with the same idea, and Sansa finds a bare patch of sand to spread out the towels. Rickon strips down to his swim trunks, and Sansa is about to warn him not to go into the water alone when Jon beats her to it, pulling off his shirt before leading Rickon into the water.
Sansa isn't certain how long they spend in the water, Jon teaching him how to blow bubbles and kick to keep himself afloat before they pile onto the towels to eat sandwiches. Jon buys them all cold sodas from the snack bar, and Sansa watches as Rickon pads down the sand to build castles with a few other children.
“You can swim if you like,” Jon offers, lying back on his towel. The sun catches the drops of water still clinging to his body, shimmering in the light. “I can keep an eye on him.”
“I'm fine.”
Jon is quiet, and Sansa is acutely aware of his presence. She thinks of Margaery's words earlier in the month, and Sansa forces herself not to look at Jon's body. After a moment, he declares, “You've done a wonderful job with him.”
The compliment brings tears to Sansa's eyes, and she flushes with embarrassment at the reaction. “Thank you.”
“He reminds me so much of you.”
“Me?” she echoes in surprise. “Everyone says he is like Robb.”
“He is in some ways. Robb was always on the move when we were little. But his sweetness, that's all you.” Jon's face softens as he says, “He has your heart.”
It shocks her, the sincerity in his voice, in his eyes. She doesn't say anything at first before managing to choke out, “It's kind of you to say.”
Rickon rushes back to them, wanting to swim again, begging Sansa to swim with them. She hopes she is not blushing as she wades into the water, acutely aware of the weight she never quite lost after Rickon; when she looks up, she finds Jon looking at her, his expression openly admiring, and Sansa feels a rush of pride even as she quickly swims out until the water reaches her chin.
It's been so long since anyone looked at her like that.
Sansa isn't certain whether she likes it or not.
It starts with the mailbox. One morning Sansa wakes up to find someone has struck it and the post which supports it is broken. She sighs, goes to work, and, when she returns, the mailbox has been fixed, the post replaced. Next is the broken screen on the back door, mended without comment, and soon every squeaking hinge, every drooping gutter, every leaking pipe is fixed. Sansa starts to resent it, the modifications the house so desperately needs and she never had time to get to; every time she comes home to find Robb's toolbox moved is another time she feels as if she is failing at keeping her own home. She remembers what it was like when Petyr started coming around, how she resented her mother for relying on this man to do what she could not; she does not want Rickon to ever think the same of her, and, when drops Rickon off to play with the Baratheon boys and returns to find Jon repairing the rotting steps on the back porch, it fills her with pure fury.
“What are you doing?”
Jon looks up, his hammer paused mid-swing. “The boards were rotting, so I thought I'd - “
“You're a boarder, not my servant.”
“Oh, I don't mind,” Jon assures her with an easy smile.
“Well, I do!” Sansa bends and begins throwing tools back into the box. “I'm perfectly capable of fixing what's wrong around the house! I've just been busy! I can take care of this house and Rickon and I don't need your help!”
“I know you don't need it. I just want to help.”
“Who asked you to?” Sansa explodes, throwing a screwdriver into the toolbox with as much force as she can manage before getting to her feet. “I took care of everything for four years without anyone to help me, and I don't need you to come in here and act as if I can't do it.”
“I'm not,” Jon argues in surprise, climbing up onto the porch. “I know you're more than capable, but I had some free time - “
“It's not your responsibility to fix things in my house!” she rushes on, making a grab for the hammer. “You don't get to just walk in here and act like you have some sort of right - “
“Sansa.” Jon gently catches her wrist, and it is only then Sansa realizes how close they are, that there are mere inches between their bodies. She shivers as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering against her cheek. “I wanted to make your life easier, that's all.”
“Why?”
There is something almost pained in Jon's expression and then he is moving closer. Sansa inhales sharply as his mouth brushes whisper soft against hers. He pulls back, his face unreadable, and Sansa thinks he is waiting to see what she is going to do, if she is going to smack him or throw him from the house. Her head is spinning wildly but Sansa still leans forward, and that is all the encouragement Jon needs. He kisses her firmly, one hand settling on her hip, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, gently requesting entrance. It has been years since Sansa has been kissed, and she is both lightheaded by it and desperate for more.
The ringing of the telephone breaks the spell and Sansa stumbles away, her heart thundering in her chest as she rushes into the house. Guilt and panic hit Sansa the moment she hears Catelyn's voice on the line, inviting her, Rickon, and Jon to dinner on Sunday afternoon. When she hangs up, Sansa looks up to see Jon standing in the doorway, looking as conflicted as she feels.
“Sansa...”
She shakes her head, holding up one hand to stop his words, unprepared to hear whatever it is he wanted to say. Instead she crosses to the stairs, hiding in her bedroom until it is time to fetch Rickon.
It is a week before Sansa can bring herself to speak to Jon about what happened. She waits until Rickon is napping, the sound of rain heavy against the roof, before she ventures onto the back porch where Jon leans against the railing, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes focused on the fence. He turns at the sound of her footsteps, and he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. It is a strangely endearing habit of his, his reluctance to smoke in front of her, and Sansa finds herself reaching out, taking the cigarette from his fingers and bringing it to her own lips. She has not had a cigarette since before she started dating Robb; even then, it had been a silly bit of rebellion, something to rebel against Petyr, who thought it cheap for a woman to do so. Now she stands beside Jon, and they pass the cigarette back and forth until it is down to the filter, neither saying a word.
Finally Sansa states, “You're his cousin.”
She notices Jon's grip on the railing tighten. “I know.”
“Why did you do this?” she asks, pained, genuinely distraught that a single kiss has ruined the peace of their lives.
Jon gives a bitter laugh, shaking another cigarette from his pack. As he fumbles with his lighter, Jon explains, “Because I've wanted to kiss you since you were sixteen-years-old.”
“What?”
Lighting the cigarette, drawing heavily on it, he elaborates, “I've wanted to kiss you from the moment I first saw you that night at the diner. You had on this blue polka dot dress and your hair was down in curls, and I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. I must have tried a dozen times to gather the courage to ask you to dance, but I was so nervous and then Robb saw you and...Well, you know the rest.” He takes a final pull from the cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray beside him. “I'm sorry if I upset you, and if you want me to leave, I will.”
Sansa feels tears stinging her eyes. “You remember that dress?”
There is genuine anguish on Jon's face as he turns to look at her. “I remember everything.”
A single tear escapes the corner of her eye and Sansa quickly wipes it away. Folding her arms over her chest, nearly hugging herself, she murmurs, “I would have danced with you.”
“Sansa,” Jon begins, moving closer to her. She shivers as his hands settle on her shoulders, and Sansa tries to remember the last time she has been touched like this, the last time someone has touched her with anything but pity. Sansa unwinds her grip on her body, her hands brushing against the firm wall of Jon's chest, and he exhales shakily, murmuring her name again.
“Sansa,” Jon begins, moving closer to her. She shivers as his hands settle on her shoulders, and Sansa tries to remember the last time she has been touched like this, the last time someone has touched her with anything but pity. Sansa unwinds her grip on her body, her hands brushing against the firm wall of Jon's chest, and he exhales shakily, murmuring her name again.
She thinks this might be the most reckless thing she has ever done, but, when Jon kisses her this time, it never occurs to Sansa to stop him.
Sansa isn't quite certain how to handle things with Jon now that everything has changed. Robb was the only man she ever dated beyond a single night out, and everything happened so quickly then. She almost longed for the ignorance of her youth; Sansa is a grown woman now, and she does not feel it in Jon's presence. Since the afternoon spent kissing on the porch, Sansa frets about everything: how she looks, what she says, how closely she stands to him. There have been a few brief kisses, but Sansa knows they cannot go on a true date; everyone in the county would know before they ever got back to the house, and she isn't certain she wants Rickon to know anything until they are certain of what is happening between them.
It is nearly ten o'clock when Sansa makes it home from the diner, far later than she usually works, but Willow is ill and she could certainly use the money. Her feet are screaming in pain, her back aches terribly, and her uniform is stained from the tray of food the new waitress accidentally dumped on her. When she called Catelyn earlier, her mother-in-law insisted Rickon sleep at Winterfell and she would take him to Bran's baseball game in the morning; Sansa is ashamed that she is grateful to have a night to herself, to be able to soak in a bath and sleep without having to wake early with her son.
It does not occur to her that she will be alone with Jon until she walks into the house, looking and feeling a mess, to find him reading on the couch. Without thinking, she reaches up to smooth down her hair, but Jon only smiles, marking his page and closing the book.
“How was work?”
“Long,” Sansa lamely answers, blushing at the scent of grease which always seemed to cling to her. “I thought you'd be in bed.”
“No, I wanted to wait for you. I thought we could have supper together.” Getting to his feet, he suggests, “Why don't you take a bath and I can make us something?”
“You don't have to do that - “
“I want to.” Cracking a smile, he adds, “And I have to eat anyway, so it's no trouble to make something for you too.”
“If you're sure...”
“I'm sure,” Jon states firmly.
It has been so long since she has had a long bath. As Sansa sheds her uniform, the hot water pouring into the deep claw-foot tub, she thinks the last time she was able to truly soak was before Rickon, before Robb even. At the house on Eyrie Avenue, her only place of peace had been the bathroom, and she would gratefully lock herself inside to escape her family; when she and Robb wed, she didn't want to linger in the bath, wanted to be the perfect wife she thought a man would want. Robb never asked too much of her, but she had been so desperate to give, to prove herself worthy of his love; as she sinks into the steaming water, resting her head against the rim of the tub, Sansa sighs and forces herself to turn her thoughts away from Robb.
The next thing Sansa knows, someone is knocking on the bathroom door. She sits up suddenly, blinking sleep from her eyes, and she flushes with embarrassment as Jon's voice softly calls, “Sansa, are you alright?”
Flustered, she answers, “I must have fallen asleep. I'll be down in a minute.”
Climbing from the cooled water, Sansa quickly dries off, slipping into her house dress. Wrinkling her nose at the wet ends of her hair, she quickly pins her hair against her head. She wishes she had time to put her face on, but she has already kept Jon waiting while she slept.
He has lit candles. It is the first thing she notices as she enters the dining room. She and Rickon rarely eat there; they take their meals at the much smaller kitchen table, and Sansa has never lit the tapered candles standing in the crystal candlesticks Robb's godfather bought them as a wedding present. Jon has two places set, and Sansa practically salivates at the scent of the food. She hopes he cannot see the way she blushes as he pulls out her chair for her; she hopes she does not embarrass herself.
“I did not know you could cook,” Sansa comments as she takes a bite of the chicken and rice on her plate.
Jon smiles sheepishly. “It was either this or scrambled eggs. I never had much use to learn it; I used to just eat at the dinner when I lived alone.”
“Do you miss it, living alone? It must have been nice knowing you could sleep without a 5-year-old leaping onto your stomach to wake you.”
“But I also wouldn't get that same 5-year-old asking me to play ball with him either. Being here with Rickon...and you...It's like being part of a family.”
Sansa feels butterflies take flight in her stomach. “You are our family, Jon.”
They finish their meal in silence, Sansa savoring the food. Jon gathers the plates when they are done, carrying them into the kitchen. When he turns on the sink, obviously intending to start cleaning, Sansa says, “You don't have to do that.”
“You don't need to wake up to a mess.” As Sansa opens up her mouth to protest, Jon grabs a dish towel and hands it to her. “I'll wash, you dry.”
There is something comforting to the rhythm of it; Jon turns on the radio and Sansa finds herself humming along. She does not realize she is doing it until Jon compliments her voice, and Sansa quickly hides her face as she puts away the plates. When they are finished, Jon smiles at her, cautiously taking a step forward, and Sansa knows he intends to kiss her. Something like panic flutters in her breast and she finds the words spilling out of her mouth without thought.
“Robb was the only man I dated.”
Jon pauses, his face becoming inscrutable. “I see.”
“No, I mean – I mean I haven't had much experience at all of this. I know you've been with women before, that we're not children but - “
“Sansa.” Gently resting his hands upon her shoulders, he assures her, “We don't have to do anything right away. I'm just happy to be with you in whatever way you wish.”
“Why do you have to say such wonderfully sweet things?”
“Because you deserve them.”
She steps forward, softly clasping his face between her palms. When they kiss, Sansa thinks there are actual sparks.
It becomes a routine. In the morning, she rises and gets Rickon ready for school; Jon drops him off on the way to work while Sansa heads to the diner. Jon picks him up instead of Catelyn, and Sansa returns at dinnertime to find them always doing something: playing catch, fixing a door hinge, listening to the radio. After supper, after Rickon is bathed and tucked into bed, then it becomes their time.
Sansa does not think she has ever been kissed so many ways. Every evening they kiss until her lips are numb, until her tongue aches from reaching. They kiss in the kitchen, in the living room, in the hallways; standing and sitting, perched in Jon's lap or lying back on the cushions with Jon above her, Sansa wonders if there is something wrong with her to want kisses so badly. All it takes is a single look, and Sansa feels her blood ignite; some nights she can scarcely sit still through dinner, barely hearing what Rickon and Jon are saying as she imagines what is to come. One evening she even fumbles a plate in the sink when Jon moves to pass her, one hand settling on her hip, and Jon smiles knowingly even as he hoists Rickon up onto his shoulders to help him get ready for bed.
Tonight they are on the couch again, Jon lying atop her, settled into the cradle of her thighs. Sansa cannot quite catch her breath, Jon's lips and tongue sliding against her throat, his hips gently rocking against hers. A part of her brain tells her they should stop, that her dress has fallen up around her hips revealing her legs and her undergarments and this is decidedly improper, but Jon chooses this moment to gently cup her breast, his lips finding the tender spot behind her ear, and suddenly Sansa doesn't care if it's improper.
He sighs her name, his thumb rolling over the hard point of her nipple; through the heavy material of her dress and bra, it is little more than a tease and Sansa cannot catch the noise which slips past her lips. Jon chuckles softly, kissing the shell of her ear, and whispers, “Do you want more?”
Her head is spinning, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She is certain her cheeks a brilliant scarlet as she tangles her fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Jon's neck; she strokes softly, her thoughts racing and Jon kisses her softly on the mouth, pulling back some.
“It's alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and Sansa's free hand captures the front of his shirt, holding him in place. Jon's eyes widen but he stays still, infinitely patient.
“I want,” Sansa begins, her voice catching before she swallows back her nervousness. “I want more. Just...slow?”
Jon's smile is warm and affectionate as he promises to go slow, and Sansa's eyes flutter shut as he begins to breathe compliments against her skin, his mouth warm and wet, his hands traveling across her body and raising goosebumps in their wake. She shivers as Jon cups breast again, pushing up into the caress; she forgets how to breathe when Jon's careful fingers begin to undo the buttons on her dress, kissing the skin he unveils. The hot slide of his tongue against the upper curve of her breast forces his name past her lips in a pleasured gasp, and, as she wiggles her arms free of the dress, Jon cannot seem to stop kissing her. His fingers fumble a bit with the clasp of her bra, and Sansa feels soothed by the shaking of his hands; she knows from their conversations that Jon has had sex with two women, and it makes her smile to see Jon's confidence waver some.
“Jesus, Sansa,” Jon moans as he bares her breasts, his fingers tracing the curve of her with near reverence. “So beautiful.”
Her teeth sink into the softness of her lower lip to muffle any sounds as Jon's lips wrap around the stiff point of her nipple. Sansa feels as if she is losing her mind at the brush of his tongue, and she cannot seem to keep her hips still, the tension building unbearably between her legs. She remembers this sort of feeling; she had felt it a handful of times with Robb, but it had always come when he was inside her, that sickly sweet ache that never quite seemed to go anywhere.
Jon's calloused fingers touching the soft skin of her inner thighs makes Sansa buck up, horrified by her reaction and hungry for more. She cannot seem to control the way her body trembles as his knuckles brush the center of her through her underwear, and the trembling only increases when Jon groans appreciatively.
“Can I?” he pants against her chest, and Sansa is not even certain what he is asking but nods anyway. The feel of his fingers hooking into her panties, tugging them downward makes her heart begin to pound. She wonders if he is going to take her right here on the couch, and it occurs to her she should stop him, that they cannot do this where Rickon could stumble upon them; the part of her raised by Lysa Arryn screams at her for behaving so wantonly, lecturing her on how only loose girls make love to men who aren't their husbands, but her husband is dead and Jon is here and nothing has ever felt quite so good.
Sansa nearly leaps out of her skin as Jon strokes over a part of her she did not know existed. Sensation explodes through her body, and Jon seems to know for he chuckles against the hinge of her jaw and croons, “Oh, sweet girl, you feel so good. You're so wet. You need this, don't you?”
She makes a noise in her throat, clasping Jon closer to her as she cants her hips up to meet his touch. “Jon – Jon – Please - “
Her breathing catches as Jon eases two fingers inside her body. It has been so long since Robb, and Sansa does not remember it feeling so good. Jon moves slowly, his thumb circling the sensitive place which makes Sansa moan, and she feels as if all that is keeping her tethered to the earth is Jon. There is sweat on her brow and Jon's voice in her ear saying wonderful, filthy words she cannot believe are coming from such a shy man, and Sansa wonders if this is what going mad feels like.
“Something's happening,” she gasps as Jon's hand speeds up, his fingers crooking to caress something that makes the tension coil tighter in her belly. “Jon, wait, something's wrong - “
“No, love, it's good, trust me, please trust me,” he murmurs, his touch becoming firmer. As the tension begins to reach its peak, Jon nips her ear and encourages, “Show me how beautiful you are.”
The pleasure is so sharp and unexpected, Sansa cannot help but cry out. Jon captures her mouth, swallowing the noise she cannot seem to stop making, and Sansa thrashes beneath him, clenching hard around his fingers, canting her hips as sensation shimmers through her. She has never felt anything like this, never known pleasure so intense; with Robb, it was always nice, always pleasant, but never like this where she cannot catch her breath, where she cannot control her reaction.
She tries to say his name a half-dozen times as Jon kisses her face, her breasts, strokes her gently through her pleasure. When he withdraws his hand, carefully tugging her underwear back into place, Sansa manages to help him some even as her limbs still tingle with sensation.
The embarrassment hits quickly. As Jon kisses her, crooning about how beautiful she is, how wonderful and desirable, Sansa cannot help but feel entirely too exposed. She urges him up, hurriedly tugging her dress back in place, fumbling the buttons as Jon looks at her in confusion. Grabbing her bra, Sansa quickly folds her arms over her chest and sputters, “I should go to bed.”
“Sansa,” Jon begins, genuine bewilderment on his handsome face, but Sansa does not stay to hear the rest of his words. She hurries up the stairs, needing to put as much distance between her and Jon as she can. Her heart beats wildly beneath her breast, and, as she enters her bedroom, her eyes immediately fall on the framed photograph of herself and Robb on their wedding day.
Sansa turns the photograph face down and wonders how something that satisfies her so much can also make her feel like the worst woman in the world.